Mother.

Today I got to play the role of “mom” more than usual, and I loved every second of it. 

(I haven’t done such a detail-oriented post before, so I hope this isn’t too long!)

We are at the end of the rainy season here in Zambia, which means it’s the period when malaria is most prevalent.  I have definitely learned that quickly this term, as it seems I send at least 2 students home in taxis every week because they are violently vomiting over the pit outside.  Charity is our resident nurse and she usually has one student in her office sleeping on a carpet on the floor, because they would rather be sick at school than at home.  Today was one such day.  One of my quietest Grade-One girls was feeling sick early on in the day, and slept most of the morning with a high fever.  Then as we started eating lunch, I noticed that Little Boy (whom I mentioned in the last post) was being abnormally quiet and not eating.  In my limited Bemba, I tried to ask him what was wrong or what he wanted.  He didn’t say a word.  I asked him if he was sick, and he said no, however, when I touched his tiny body, I realized he was burning up.  I told him that he WAS in fact sick, and I took him into the office to sleep next to his classmate.  

After a few phone calls and sending neighbor children to go get the students’ guardians, I sat in a room with two feverish children, Teacher Esnart, Little Boy’s grandfather and Little Girl’s mother & two little sisters.  Teacher Esnart explained that Haven of Hope pays for the students to go to the clinic, but they have to go to the one in town where we have an arrangement.  Little Boy’s grandfather sincerely wanted to take him, but he works as a house-guard and he had to clock out and ride his bike to school to check on his grandson, and he didn’t think he could take off any more work to take him to the clinic.  Little Girl’s mother seemed overwhelmed with her other two young daughters but she said she would take her daughter tomorrow.  I looked at these two sets of guardians, who so clearly love their children and WANTED to take care of them, and I realized that I wanted more than anything to help relieve their burdens.  So I volunteered to take the kids.  We had them fill out paperwork to give proof of consent and I hopped into a taxi with Little Boy and Little Girl. 

We arrived at the Dr’s office and the kind, elderly nurse took the kid’s temperatures and weights.   They were both so perfect as they silently obeyed her orders to remove their shoes, step on the scale, and sit with the thermometer under their arms.  Little Girl’s fever had broken while at school, but she was still at 100 degrees, while Little Boy was at 102.  She then took us to the back room where we sat and waited for her to prepare the malaria tests.  There were a few winces and tears, but both kids did great as she pricked their fingers to collect some blood samples.  The tests both came out positive, so we had to sit and wait while the nurse prepared three different kinds of medicines that the children will have to take for the next few days.  She gave them their first doses and some special kind of liquid that would boost their energy. 

Next came the hard part.  The nurse wanted to give them an injection to bring the fever down, so I had to take them back one at a time to receive a shot in the rear end.  I now have a tiny glimpse what it’s like to take your child to get injections.  It’s AWFUL.  Little Girl went first, and she just kept looking at me, trying to be brave.  She laid on the bed, grabbing my hand so hard, but as soon as the shot was in the tears and whimpering started.  I wanted to cry myself, but I just kept telling her what a big girl she was and “Chapwa!  That’s all!  That’s all!”  The crying stopped soon after the injection, but then came Little Boy.  His fear was even more evident and I wanted nothing more than to take it away.  I wondered to myself how many times he’s had to have injections due to his HIV status.  I wondered if he ever gets angry with God.  I wondered if he knew just how incredibly brave I think he is.  The nurse gave him the shot and he cried the most sad, pathetic cry I think I’ve ever heard for about ten minutes.  It broke my heart.  I think the hardest part was seeing my Little Boy, normally smiling and following my around like my shadow, so quiet and in pain.  All I wanted to do was make it better.

We left the doctor’s office and I asked the kids if they were feeling hungry yet.  They both said yes, and I realized I wanted to do something special.  We went to the local grocery store, bought a few bags of fries and some juice boxes and headed back to my house.  These two were the first to ever visit Teacher Amy’s house, and they knew it.  We walked in and they weren’t quite sure what to do.  I had some markers lying out from a poster I was working on, so Little Boy quietly asked if they could color.  I made room on my table, gave them each a piece of paper, and got out my computer to pop in “The Emperor’s New Groove” while I made lunch.  Suddenly the silence was broken during a particular funny part of the movie that prompted Little Boy to blurt out Little Girl’s name, followed by a long strew of Bemba words.  Little Girl looked at me and we both laughed.  I simply said, “I think Little Boy is feeling better!  He seems like himself again.”  The kids stayed for about an hour while we ate and finished the movie.  It was so encouraging to see how much better they felt after getting their medicine. 

After we finished, Charity graciously came to pick us up so that she could drive them home instead of me paying for a taxi.  We first met Little Boy’s grandparents at the school, where I met his grandmother for the first time.  It was so good for my heart to see how much they both love their grandson.  I can’t imagine how hard it has been to lose both their daughter and son-in-law, but they have stepped in to fill those roles for Little Boy in such a beautiful way.  I explained all the instructions for the medication, Little Boy’s grandmother tied him up in a chitenge (piece of cloth) on her back, and the three of them left to go home.  I know some of my students come from very difficult families, so I was overwhelmed with thankfulness that at least I was sending Little Boy home with two people who love and protect him as much as they can.  We then drove Little Girl to her house that is fairly close to the school.  By this time it was almost 6:00, but no one was at home.  Thankfully her neighbor, mother to 2 of our other students, was at home and she promised to relay the instructions on to Little Girl’s mother.  And with that, we were done for the day. 

I had no idea when I woke up this morning that this is what I would be doing, but I am so incredibly thankful.  This is why I came to Zambia.  I did not come to go home after school and sit on my couch and surf through facebook.  I came to do life with these children.  They are my mission 24/7, not just while we’re at school, and today I got to make that a reality.  I got an unexpected and uncommon period of 2-on-one time with Little Boy and Little Girl, and it was precious.  I got to show their families that I’m not just some white girl who teaches their kids; I am here to stand beside them and help love these children in any way I can.  I am starting to break down the walls that tower between me and the people of Zambia, and I could not be more excited.  God is at work, and I’m ready for whatever comes next.

My little boy.

He makes me laugh probably more than any of my other students.  We’re talking belly laugh.  And almost every day he sneaks up to me, tugs on my shoulder so I bend down to his level and proceeds to tell me a VERY long story, entirely in Bemba.  He looks at me with expectant eyes, waiting for me to respond, only to have me (yet again) shrug my shoulders and say, “Shum fwile, buddy!  Shum fwile!”  (aka: I don’t understand!)  And even though he KNOWS he’s supposed to be outside during break time, he is always in my classroom looking for ways to stick close to me.  “Teacher, I rub the board?  Teacher, I throw the pencil shavings?  Teacher, I clean the cups?”  Some days he can be my little angel; other days he comes to school ready to fight.  He must have a whole colony of ants in his pants and he doesn’t know the meaning of “raise your hand!”  Some days he makes me want to pull out my hair.  But then he smiles or giggles or quietly sits down beside me as I work on grading, and he’s my little boy again.

And today I found out there’s a very good chance he’s HIV-positive.

I knew the statistics when I moved here.  I know there’s a very good chance that more of my students are also positive.  Charity and I have even talked about students we are concerned about, based on their chronic illnesses.  But actually having it confirmed?  Knowing that this little boy who sits in my classroom every day is facing a life of stigma and hardship?  That changes things. 

AIDS is heartbreaking enough when it’s adults who have to deal with the terrible consequences of their choices; but kids?  It’s almost unbearable.  These children are born into this world with no choice.  Their fates are handed down to them because of someone else’s mistakes.  People who were supposed to take care of them messed up, and most of the time they aren’t even alive to make it up to their precious children.  As is the case with my little boy.  He’s a double orphan.  Both of his parents are gone, most likely due to the virus.  Thank God he has a grandmother who loved him enough to get him tested.  She loved him enough to ignore the stigmas and the prejudice and the fear that this virus has brought to the people of Zambia.  The stigmas that make people ignore the signs and deny the possibilities.   She was one of the few who chose to get her child tested.  And now she knows.  

But he doesn’t.  He doesn’t even understand.  He doesn’t understand why he has to go to the clinic every month to get weighed and poked and prodded.  He doesn’t understand why he has to take medicine every day.  And when Charity asked him if his little sister also takes this medicine, he simply said, “Nope.  She’s not big enough to swallow pills.”  In his little boy brain, the only reason he takes this life-sustaining drug is because he’s big and his sister is not.  Because how on earth could you explain something like this to a 6 year old boy?  How on earth can you explain the gravity of it while still offering him hope?  I pray that my loving God will give his grandmother enduring strength the day she finally has to tell him the truth.

Today my heart is heavy and I’m reminded again why I am here.  It’s so easy sometimes to believe the picture that my Zambian friends put forth.  They are forever smiling and full of life; but inside is often a world of hurt far beyond my comprehension.  It’s easy to read the statistics.  It’s easy to convince yourself that you know the repercussions.  But even if my little boy IS the only one in my class who is HIV-positive, I know that every other child in the room has been affected by AIDS in some way.  I feel it every time I have to ask my students whom exactly they stay with.  Are they one of the lucky ones who still have a mom or dad at home, or do they stay with an aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, sister or brother?  I feel it when I look in the Zambian science books and children are being taught to stay away from sharp objects, not just because they are sharp, but also because they could pass on life-ending diseases.  And sometimes the weight of it is too much to bear.  It’s hard to look into the eyes of little boys and girls who live in this world of pain and teach them how to subtract 29 from 45.  It’s days like these that I wish God would miraculously make me fluent in Bemba so I could simply hold my students and help them understand just how much I love them. 

But today, all I have is subtraction.  And sight words.  And English vocabulary.  And the story of Moses.  And every day I have to believe that even if I can’t erase all the heartache in my students’ lives, I can help them build a better future.  I can help them learn English and I can help them read and I can teach them about the Bible and maybe, just maybe, these tools will help them break the cycle.  And maybe if they can subtract, they will be able to run a small business from their homes and help support their families.  And maybe if they can read, they will truly become educated about this virus that seeks to destroy their country.  And maybe if they can speak English fluently, they will be given the opportunity to attend college where they will study to be doctors who help fights AIDS.  And maybe if they hide the story of Moses away in their hearts, they will never forget that God hears our cries and He will send a deliverer some day.

And THIS is why I’m here.

Redeemed.

"Some wandered in the desert wastelands, finding no way to a city where they could settle.  They were hungry and thirsty, and their lives ebbed away.

And HE delivered them from their distress.

Some sat in darkness and the deepest gloom, prisoners suffering in iron chains.

And HE brought them out of darkness and the deepest gloom and broke away their chains.

Some became fools through their rebellious ways and suffered affliction because of their iniquities.

And HE sent forth his word and healed them; he rescued them from the grave.

Others were merchants on the mighty waters…they mounted up to the heaves and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away.  They reeled and staggered like drunken men; they were at their wits’ end.

And HE stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.

Let them give thanks to the Lord for his UNFAILING love and his WONDERFUL deeds for men."

-Excerpts from Psalm 107.

Today I am overwhelmed by a God who sees all of these people.  Who sees the wanderers, the prisoners, the fools and the merchants (or as I like to think of them, “the self-made man”).  But He not only sees them; He answers them.  He comes to them.  He is exactly what they need.  He takes their brokenness, their confusion, their mistakes, their fears, their pain and he redeems it. 

I know my story.  I know how God has saved me from myself more times than I can count.  But I think I often underestimate the power of His love.  I forget that He works in everyone’s life the way He works in mine.  And so I am stopped dead in my tracks when I hear other people’s stories of redemption.  I am overwhelmed when I experience genuine, selfless love from a person whose story is so filled with pain and disappointment.  It’s easy for me to understand how someone from middle class America with loving parents and a good education can be loving and generous.  That MAKES sense.  When you have been loved, you in turn love.  But when I hear the stories of my friends and my students and the random strangers I interact with on a daily basis, I am undone by a God who can fix all things broken.  A God who not only wants to FIX it, he wants to make it something entirely new.  Something beautiful and strong and something that will forever cause people to stop and say, “Only by the grace of God.”  Because THAT is how I feel.  I look in the faces of these precious people and I know.  I know that their joy and their love and their strength and their patience and their beauty is because of Him alone.  

Because it’s the only reason MY life has been redeemed.  

(Also, if you've never heard this song, you should listen to it now cause it basically sums up everything I'm feeling tonight.  Beautiful Things)

Repainting.

There’s something I’ve been thinking about for awhile now.

I know for people who haven’t been to Africa before, it’s hard to visualize this place.  It’s hard to imagine the day-to-day life of a world so utterly different from what we’re used to in America.  Everyone talks about the culture shock when they come here for the first time; the extreme poverty, the tiny houses and the dirt roads, the children running around with no parents.  They also talk about the way it puts things into perspective and makes you grateful for what you have.  In recent years we have become more socially aware and organizations like Invisible Children, RED, and countless others have opened our eyes in a brand new way.  It’s good; please don’t get me wrong.  Our eyes NEED to be opened.  We NEED to be struck with the painful dichotomy that exists between our American lifestyles and the majority of people in this world who can only dream of what we take for granted. 

BUT my fear in our eyes being opened is that we tend to see these people and these places as nothing more than projects.  We paint pictures of poverty and pitiful children who are crying out for some compassionate white person to write a check and make their lives better.  And yes, there is so much need here in Zambia.  It can be overwhelming at times.  It can be frustrating to know that the money we often drop on new outfit could send a desperate child to school for a year.  It can be agonizing to hear of 5-year-old boys dying of preventable and curable diseases like malaria.  This IS a third-world country, and that is painfully obvious to me every single day.

But what we often fail to see if the way that these third-world countries tend to be rich in ways that we in America are poverty-stricken.

Like joy.  I know many tv commercials use pictures of skinny, sad and hopeless looking people to help you understand the need that is in this world, but that is NOT the picture I see as I walk through these compounds.  Ask anyone who has ever traveled to a third-world country, and I guarantee you that one of the first things they’ll say is, “I was overwhelmed with the amount of joy these people had.  I mean, they have SO LITTLE, and yet somehow they are so happy and thankful.”  Zambians are literally the nicest people I have ever met.  You rarely see them without a smile on their face.  They sing with more passion that any worship team I’ve ever heard.  They dance like they’re in the presence of Christ himself.  And they laugh endlessly.  Even though they don’t have nice houses or cars or clothes or even food (or maybe BECAUSE they don’t have all these things), they wake up every day with hope in their hearts and a smile on their face.  And then I look at my home country; a place so battered with issues of jealousy and depression and suicide, and I have to wonder what’s wrong with this picture.  How have we missed the point?

Zambian culture is rich in tradition, based on the foundations of family, faith and work.  Zambians are some of the hardest working people I have ever met.  Even though the country has an 80% unemployment rate, by no means are the people just sitting around at home twiddling their thumbs.  They are waking up at dawn to work the ground before it gets too hot.  They are cleaning every corner of their houses every day.  They are walking miles to gather water and charcoal.  But they also understand the value of REST.  I think that is the one of the biggest differences I have noticed between Americans and Zambians.  No one “brings the office home” with them after they have knocked off for the day.  Once they’re home, they are HOME.  Time to rest, watch some tv and refuel for the next day.  On Saturdays, most shops close early so people can enjoy their weekends, and many stores aren’t open at all on Sunday.  They still get everything done that needs to get done, and I’ve never met a Zambian who seems stressed or overworked.

And their idea of family is totally different from the western mentality.  For people in the west, your “family” normally means your immediate family.  Your parents and siblings.  That’s all.  Those are the people who live in your house, and you see your “extended” family a few times a year.  But in Zambia, “extended” family is a foreign concept.  Zambians call their cousins “brothers” and “sisters” and their aunts and uncles “mom” and “dad.”  I have never been to a household where JUST the immediate family stays; normally there is an extra niece, nephew, sister, mother, grandmother, etc.  When a family member dies, there is always someone there to take care of the children left behind.  Most people you ask did NOT grow up just staying with their parents.  They may have spent a few years with their auntie and a few years with their bambuya (grandmother) and a few years with their elder sister and so on.  These relationships are not always perfect or loving, but they are carried out with a deep sense of loyalty and tradition.  Can you imagine if there was no need for orphanages or nursing homes because families just took care of one another?

On a side note, I think this value of family (and relationships in general), is at the heart of one Zambian tradition that used to confuse me.  When I first got here, I would have friends call me every day just to say “good morning!” or “good night!”  I must admit, it was slightly annoying, but I had to get used to it.  Now after having been here for 7 months, I’m starting to understand it.  I honestly think it’s just that Zambians value relationships SO much, that they hate going even a single day without talking to the people that they love.  So no matter how short the conversation may be, they simply want that person to know that they are thinking about them.  And I think that’s pretty awesome.

I wish I could carry a video camera with me at all times and capture the beauty that is in the people of Zambia.  I wish you could feel the excitement and pride that builds every time the Zambian National Football Team (reigning champions of the African Cup!) is about to take the field (like TODAY for instance).  I wish you could hear the endless chatter of the women at the market, sharing with their friends as they sell their vegetables and spices.  I wish you could see the debates that are televised on tv between high school students from around the nation; students who possess more knowledge and passion and articulation than I have ever seen.  I wish you could feel the hospitality of every home I’ve ever been to; people who offer the best of what little they have and who joyfully take the time to visit with new friends. 

Ultimately, I wish you could see Zambia the way that I have come to see it; a vibrant country filled with hardworking, joyful people who are bursting with potential.  They are not to be pitied or looked down upon, and if I have ever said anything to perpetuate that image, I apologize.  I pray that anyone who gives to Haven of Hope (or similar organizations) does not give with the motive of “saving the poor African children.”  Am I saying that we should stop helping people in third world countries?  Absolutely not.  I’m simply saying that when we DO help, we should do it for the right reasons.  Yes, these people may have a lack of resources and opportunities, but that does NOT mean that they lack the ability to love or dream or think for themselves.  They are each unique individuals, just like you and me.  They love their families, are proud of their country and have plans for their futures.  They may need a little help to ensure that they fulfill those plans, but that does not mean in any way that they are incapable of reaching them.  They are intelligent, resourceful, funny, kind, diligent and above all, HUMAN. 

When I read through the Gospel, I never see a picture of Jesus pitying the poor.  Yes, he loved them and YES, he called the rich to help them; but not because the poor are somehow LESS than the rich.  In fact, Jesus said, “BLESSED are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”  I pray that we first-worlders continue to have our eyes opened to the need around the world, and I pray that we are moved to action.  But I also pray that we never lose sight of the PEOPLE.  That we never forget that having money does not make us better than anyone else.  That we look for the many ways we can LEARN from the people of third-world countries, who seem to understand what is truly important better than us.  And that we give because it’s the RIGHT thing to do, not so that we can feel better about ourselves.

If nothing else, I hope that my experiences in Zambia and this blog help to repaint a picture of Africa for those of you who have never been here.  I hope that you start to see its beauty more than its pain and its strength more than its poverty.  And I hope that in some small way, you come to love this place like I do.